‘Green to call, red to hang up. It can do other things, which we’ll show you later. The company pays for unlimited usage, so make as many personal calls as you like. It works out cheaper for us than trying to work out who said what to who. Same with the computer.’ He picked up the other box and tapped in the number again. Ellie heard a click. A clamshell lid swung up on invisible hinges, revealing a keyboard and screen.
‘It’s a laptop,’ she said. Destrier’s look made her wilt.
‘There’s also your cards.’ He pulled a cardboard wallet out of his suit and laid it on the desk. ‘Company credit card. There’s no maximum, but we do check what you spend. No unlimited personal usage on that one. And this is your card for the building. Swipe it wherever you go. If you’re not supposed to go somewhere, it won’t let you through. In particular, stay away from the sixth floor. It’s off limits.’
He sat on the desk and leaned over her. Ellie pushed her chair back.
‘We take security very seriously here. We reserve the option to monitor your computer activity, your e-mails and websites, your phone calls, your comings and goings.’
‘Of course,’ said Ellie, wondering what they thought she might do.
‘All our machines carry software to make sure you don’t compromise our security. Even by accident.’ He slid a piece of paper across the desk. ‘Sign this to say you that you’ve understood and agree.’
Ellie stared at the paper long enough to look like she’d taken it seriously, then signed.
By quarter to five, Lemmy had found out what his client wanted to know. He’d sweated so much his bedraggled shirt was like a dishrag. His hair was a mess from where he tugged it when he was thinking, and he could feel a spot swelling on the bridge of his nose. But for what he’d earned that day, it was worth it.
He worked another half an hour, just for good measure, then packed up his briefcase and left. He found his car in the underground parking at Place des Martyrs and his spirits lifted. A silver Audi, his one indulgence. Not a top-of-the-range model, nothing to arouse the envy or suspicion of his colleagues, but fitted with just about every option in the catalogue. Lemmy thought of it as the down payment on his future, a promise of good things to come.
He turned on the engine and let the air conditioning play over his clammy face. He found the hip flask he kept in the glove compartment and swallowed a mouthful of fifteen-year-old Scotch — another indulgence. He leaned his head against the leather headrest, closed his eyes and let ten speakers-worth of music wash over him. He wouldn’t do this again for months, he promised himself. It wasn’t worth the stress. And for what this customer was paying him, he wouldn’t need to.
A tap at the window undid most of the whisky’s effect. His eyes snapped open in terror, then confusion as he saw it was Christine Lafarge.
He fumbled for a switch and lowered the electric window, sliding the hip flask into the door pocket. A blossom of perfume blew in.
‘Did I forget something?’ Try to be calm.
She smiled a straight-toothed smile. ‘I wanted to apologise. For being abrupt with you this morning.’ She’d bent close to the window. ‘I was surprised. We are under so much pressure at the moment.’
‘It is the curse of the modern world,’ Lemmy agreed.
‘I know you were only doing your job.’ Her hands rested on the windowsill; her fingertips dangled inside the car, brushing his sleeve. Lemmy began to see the possibility of an unexpected bonus to this job.
‘Perhaps I can buy you a drink?’
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘I could use one.’
She opened the door and slid into the passenger’s seat, smoothing her skirt over her legs so that Lemmy would notice them. She could smell the alcohol on his breath.
She fastened her seatbelt and sank back in the seat. She caught Lemmy sneaking a glance at her cleavage and smiled.
This was going to be easy.
Ellie’s phone rang at five o’clock. She fumbled to find the right place to press the buttonless plastic to answer it.
‘Mr Blanchard’s car is waiting for you,’ the receptionist told her.
Ellie closed the folder she’d been looking at and grabbed her bag. When she peeked into Blanchard’s office he was on the phone, listening intently. He smiled her a goodbye.
Blanchard’s car was enormous, a midnight-blue beast that filled most of the narrow alley in front of the bank. A suited chauffeur held the door open for her as she slid onto the white leather. She was almost afraid to get in, a child in a shop full of fragile and expensive things. She saw the winged crest emblazoned with the letter B on the steering wheel, and it occurred to her it might stand for Bentley.
‘Just joined us, Ma’am?’ the driver asked. Ellie squirmed. Nobody had ever called her Ma’am before. She nodded.
‘I suppose everybody gets this on the first day.’
She saw his smile in the rear-view mirror. ‘Not many, Ma’am.’
‘Ellie.’
He took the turn at the end of the alley with practised ease, though it looked to Ellie as if the wall must be halfway into the engine block. As they pulled into the traffic, Ellie stared out of the window, watching the crowds of office workers flow up and down King William Street. Most didn’t give the Bentley a second look, or only a grudging glance. Only a boy, about ten, dressed in flannel shorts and a baggy red cap, standing perpendicular to the crowds as he stared with innocent wonder at the powerful car inching past. Ellie waved to him. It seemed somehow inconceivable that children existed in the City. He didn’t wave back.
‘He can’t see you,’ the driver explained from the front. ‘Tinted glass.’
Ellie sat back, feeling foolish.
The car stopped at the foot of a tower — one of three thrusting up out of the concrete fortress of the Barbican, the city’s northern rampart. Ellie scrambled out before the driver could open the door for her, and wondered if it was rude.
‘Looks like someone’s come to meet you,’ he said.
At first Ellie didn’t see him — she was looking for a suit, assuming it must be someone from the bank. She only spotted him when he started moving towards her. A brown corduroy jacket and a tab-collared linen shirt, half untucked; wavy dark hair and a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
‘Doug?’
It came out fiercer than she’d meant. Doug was Oxford, her past, her doubts. She didn’t want him there. Not today.
His smile faltered. ‘I called your office — your boss gave me the address. I … I wanted to apologise.’ He gazed at the Bentley and tried to look nonchalant. ‘Nice car. Is that part of the package?’
‘Not yet.’ Ellie reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Apology accepted.’ Behind him, she could see the driver waiting to give her a set of keys.
‘Thirty-eighth floor. You’ll find everything you need up there.’
The lift seemed to take a long time to get to the top. Ellie and Doug stood in opposite corners, last night’s fight still not forgotten.
‘Are you sure you came to apologise?’ Ellie asked warily. ‘Not to rescue me, or steal me back to Oxford?’
Doug held up his hands in innocence. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were OK.’ They stepped out of the lift; Ellie fumbled with the keys she’d been given. ‘And check out the new executive pad, obviously. I — wow.’
The moment Ellie opened the door it was as if someone had conjured the interior of a French chateau into this brutalist tower three hundred feet above London: a symphony of dark woods and heavy fabrics, gilded curlicues and lacquered surfaces. Oil paintings in crazily ornate frames lined the walls like a museum — except one wall, which was all glass. Dusk was falling. The city had begun to prepare for darkness, and a carpet of light stretched as far as Ellie could see. She didn’t know London well enough to pick out all the landmarks, but she thought she recognised the Houses of Parliament, Saint Paul’s Cathedral.